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I climbed down, feeling each sturdy branch underneath before putting my full weight on it, letting the curves of the branches conform to the arches of my bare feet. I felt the knobs in the otherwise smooth bark. Sometimes, when peering inside them, I saw spiders spinning webs. Midway down, I stopped. There seemed no reason to go further. Here was perfect. Here was a branch thick, solid and comforting. I sat down on it, with my back to the trunk and legs extended out in front of me. If I had a book I would have read. Instead I thought. I imagined. I pretended I owned the tree, and the forest—that this was my secret place, that no one else had carved their names on the trunk of the tree someplace far below. I thought about remembering this moment forever, but then remembered I’d forget it someday. I thought about summertime, and blueberries—buckets full of them. I wondered if other people sat in trees and thought. Did they think it wonderful, too? Here, on this thick branch of the tree I loved, sitting high above the ground below, it didn’t seem possible summer would end or I’d grow up. Where else would I ever want to be than right here? I’d never grow into an adult. All they do is talk. They never DO anything, things like climb trees just to sit in them or fill buckets full with blueberries. I let the sun dry my pocket still wet from sky, flipping the insides out to air them. But the sun began to sink, and orange and pink replaced the unending blue. Down I went, further toward the foliage below until at once I jumped, landing on soft ground. My pockets had dried. The sun had set. And not far away, I heard my name being called for dinner.